The Pact
by IronicSnap
Summary: Marik's life has taught him to be sceptical of those others call "gods". But in his struggle against the Pharaoh, he'll take any advantage he can find.
Marik had never put much stock in gods. If you wanted something done in this world, you had to do it yourself – or force someone else to, at any rate.

But power was power. And Marik took power where-ever he could find it.

In his youth, before his father had ruined him, he had believed in the Egyptian Gods. How could he not? They were the foundation of everything he knew. He had been raised on the ancient customs of a civilisation long past, taught in the old ways so that he could keep the traditions alive. He had tried to follow his father's example in worshipping the Egyptian pantheon. But when he discovered his father wasn't a man worth following, he had discarded those gods, just as he had discarded everything else from his old life.

The experience was indescribably liberating, once he thought about it. The gods weren't actually omnipotent after all. In fact, they were completely powerless. They certainly hadn't been able to prevent his father's death – what possible claim could they pretend to have over Marik? He was free to live as he wished.

Exploring the world exposed him to new religions and worldviews. First Islam, then perspectives from around the globe: Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism. Outright atheism. They were trifles to him – ultimately uninteresting. He was almost a god himself with the power of the Millenium Rod at his command, and he had the legion of followers to prove it. Besides, there were far more important topics to turn his attention to. Rare cards. Motorcycles. Vengeance.

But Marik wanted every advantage he could take over the Pharaoh. He heard tales of one supernatural being whose power intrigued him – a creature whose ancient rituals may actually be worth his precious time. Marik mulled it over and decided that he had nothing to lose. He might as well test the myths.

Should they prove to be true, the rewards would be worth it.

He waited for the correct time; for the plants to wither and die and for the snow to begin to pile up outside his hideout. As instructed, he lit a fire in his fireplace. The roar of burning wood was the only sound in his private room.

He sat at his table. One sheet of paper and a pen.

Exhaling – unsure of where to start – he picked up the pen. He felt nervous despite himself. He reminded himself that this was most likely superstitious nonsense, and even if it wasn't, he had nothing to fear. Not really. He was Marik Ishtar.

He had to begin.

He started to write.

He inscribed the ceremonial opening phrase.

" _Dear Santa,_ "

Marik tapped his pen against his lips thoughtfully, then continued.

" _I understand that you perform surveillance on every underage person on the planet. Most impressive! Also, very weird. But I'm not judging. You do you, I guess.  
Even though you most likely know of me already, I feel like I should introduce myself, since this is my first correspondence to you. Also, I enjoy introducing myself. I am __**MARIK ISHTAR**_ ," and Marik paused to underline his name in order to give it the appropriate gravitas, " _last in the ancient line of the Tombkeepers! And I wish to petition your aid in my quest to destroy the Pharaoh!_ "

Marik nodded to himself. This was going well.

" _Naturally, it would be easiest for you to just confer onto me the victory that I sorely deserve! However, I've heard you deal primarily in material goods moreso than abstract achievements, so if that doesn't work for you, I would instead like:_

 _The Legendary Fiend card, which my mighty Rare Hunters have thus far been unable to attain!  
A batch of no less than seventy-three dark purple robes, so that my mighty Rare Hunters may have a cohesive aesthetic!  
A giant pirate ship with eyes on it, with which I may pluck lost souls from the very sea!  
And a nice lilac top that is slightly too short so my midriff is exposed!_"

Marik played with the pen for a few moments, spinning it slowly through his fingers. This was the tricky part.

" _I've heard that you are a man of principle – that you pass judgement on the world, doling out aid only to those who meet your moral standards while awarding nothing but coal to those who do not. If you are truly as wise as you say, you would clearly see that it is I who is_ " and Marik scribbled out the 'is' and wrote 'am', and stared at it for a bit because it didn't sound right, and said it aloud a few times under his breath before deciding that must just be how you say it, " _I who am the victim in my struggle against the Pharaoh, since I never wanted the cruel destiny thrust upon me! Even still, I can appreciate the possibility that you do not approve of my methods. If that is the case, allow me to appeal to you on a more practical level, Mr Claus. Even if you dislike my morals, perhaps we can still do business if I can provide you with something in exchange? The ancient power of my Millenium Rod allows me to turn any fool into an obedient slave! If you have labour issues, I can assure you I could resolve them for you most expediently!_ "

Marik was running out of space, so he put a succinct " _I hope to hear from you, and have a Merry Christmas._

 _Yours sincerely,_ _ **MARIK ISHTAR**_."

He read over the letter once, then checked it twice. It was perfect, unsurprisingly. After all, he had written it.

Now all he had to do was deliver it. He picked up the letter and brought it to the fireplace.

He knelt down, examining the crackling fire. This was the delivery method, he had been told – the means by which Santa Claus magically received all correspondence. All he had to do was hold the letter above the flame and let the hot air take it up through the chimney. The voice in the back of Marik's head suggested that it would probably be fun to stick his entire hand in the fire, too. Marik ignored it. It was an endless fountain of terrible ideas, although he had to admit it was a very helpful partner when it came to thinking up elaborate death traps.

Carefully – feeling the burning heat against his skin – he extended the letter into the flames. The paper flicked slightly, moved by the hot air. It was time.

Marik released the letter and it immediately fell into the fire. It was ash in seconds.

"Son of a **bitch!** " screamed Marik. He sat back and turned around. " **Odion!** "

"Yes, Master Marik?" came Odion's voice calmly from the other side of the door.

"I'm... going to need another piece of paper."

"Yes, Master Marik."


End file.
